The Duchess Wager Read online

  She leaned ever-so-slightly closer. Fitz breathed nothing but her now. If they’d been alone, he would have kissed her. Even now, surrounded by her family, he could barely keep himself from closing the distance. She had the slightest smile on her lips as she spoke, as if she wanted the same.

  “Let’s see. The Duke of Harrodshire is a man of good standing, indeed. Your manners are, of course, impeccable. What about goodwill? You are traveling to assist your friends with an elopement, which included jilting an innocent young lady on the day of her wedding.” In just a few words, Margot’s sultry words hardened into ice.

  She straightened into the picture of a perfect lady: prim, withdrawn, and emotionless. “Your Grace, you will be found wanting.”

  Fitz stared. Then he blinked. Then he looked to Lord and Lady Eastley.

  Surely he had misheard. Or misunderstood.

  Margot had been telling a silly tale. How did it turn into an indictment? And how dare she condemn him, her guest? A duke, to boot?

  Could she really hold such a grudge against Talbot and Annabelle?

  Lord Eastley had boiled red. “Margot, have you lost your mind?”

  The other end of the table silenced. Annabelle was pale, her famed good humor clinging just barely to the corners of her lips.

  Margot looked perfectly comfortable. Wearing the fashionable expression of boredom, she murmured, “I do apologize. It was only a joke.”

  Her eyes didn’t even slide to him. That was, perhaps, what most hurt Fitz. That she had enchanted him, only to cast him as an ass. What for him had been the most interesting conversation of his life had, for her, been nothing more than a setup for a set-down.

  Fitz could set her down, too. He’d been born for such moments. He could raise an eyebrow in silence. He could cut her with vicious words. He could rebuke the entire party and leave the table.

  But he did no such thing. Perhaps because he was still caught in her spell. Perhaps because he simply didn’t want any further attention. Perhaps because he agreed: as charming as Annabelle was, Talbot had been wrong to jilt Miss Dawes.

  No matter the reason. Fitz raised his glass – which in the dim light appeared full of black ink instead of red wine – in a toast. “That I may learn to laugh, and that you may learn good humor.”

  Down at the other end of the table, the lady’s brother-in-law Osborne chuckled a little too loudly. Winpole chimed in with “hear, hear” a little too quickly. It helped the moment roll by, so no one need dwell on the strange way Lady Wickham had so efficiently cut the duke.

  As for the lady herself, Fitz dared not peek. He didn’t want to see her reaction, not if it meant watching the enchantress disappear further under a tonnish mask. He’d rather finish the evening with civility and retreat to his quiet rooms as soon as it was polite to do so.

  Which meant, of course, that he didn’t see if his rejoinder had earned a smile of delight, either.

  Chapter Four

  For the first time in months, Margot was awake in spirit and body all at the same time. She opened her eyes and pushed out of bed in one fell swoop, as if there was a reason for her to be up. As if she was excited to be awake.

  She couldn’t say just where her energy came from. It had felt good to have company at dinner, even if that company had thrown poor Miss Dawes to the wolves not five days earlier. Margot hadn’t expected the mood of the whole house to perk up at the prospect of new faces to please. Even the footmen had seemed to smile more easily as they had set out the banquet.

  Margot was forced to admit she’d enjoyed herself. More than she had in months. There was something to be said for having a goal, even if it was only a goal to make mischief.

  There was something to be said, too, for having a duke rake his eyes over one. Especially a handsome duke. Margot had expected someone old and dreary, with a stoop and lazy manners.

  The Duke of Harrodshire was anything but that. He stood tall and proud, all long legs and royal cheekbones and curious gray eyes that never seemed restful as they gazed inquisitively through to one’s soul.

  She had enjoyed being the center of his attention. So much so that she’d forgotten who he was. That he was aiding and abetting the very marriage that was so hurtful to Miss Dawes. Margot had found herself spinning that story about the northern roads just to keep his eyes on her. It was only when she could feel the heat of his face that she realized what she was doing. Or, rather, realized what she should not be doing.

  Which was when she’d put her foot in her mouth once and for all.

  Margot didn’t fully regret her words. They were truthful: the duke was found to be wanting, given that he’d condoned his friend’s behavior to Miss Dawes. However, she did regret saying them so clearly and loudly and publicly.

  Such feelings were much better kept to the drawing room.

  Shaking herself from her reverie, Margot decided that no matter where her newfound energy came from, it was best to do what she could to keep it.

  Which meant – after dressing and spending half an hour listening to George extoll the virtues of snow – she descended to breakfast in hopes of catching Alice alone. They had to plan their next step.

  During the short winter days of January, the Winpole family preferred to eat breakfast in the morning room, where wide glass windows bathed them in sunlight, instead of the dark, stone dining room. Margot was pleased to discover the tradition had been continued even with their guests present, a makeshift banquet table assembled from the side tables and card tables, all draped in a lace cloth.

  Unfortunately, Alice was not alone. Not only was Hugh at her side, but their father sat at the head of the table, and none other than the Duke of Harrodshire had taken the seat in the center, a ray of sunshine beaming on his golden hair as he bent over a plate of eggs and sausage.

  Margot smoothed her dress, then proceeded to the sideboard, selecting her own portion of soft eggs, bacon, and scones. She took the seat beside Hugh, leaving an empty chair between herself and the duke.

  Not that she needed to worry about earning his attention. The duke was engrossed in a conversation with her father, apparently dissecting the responsibilities of counties versus those of the national government.

  Alice greeted her with a merry smile. “It’s nice to see you up and about so early.”

  Margot resented the implication – no matter how accurate – that she was not usually at the breakfast table. “I should hate to miss a moment with our guests. Are Lord and Lady Gresham still retired?”

  “They already ate. Mother has taken them on a tour of the house.”

  Margot raised an eyebrow at Alice, hoping her sister understood the silent communication that they needed to speak in private. Then she turned to Hugh. “I’m afraid George has his heart set on an adventure in the snow today. Is there any chance you could take him tromping through the fields? He hates it when I’m the one to accompany him, since I can’t be a knight with him.”

  Dependable Hugh agreed. “It is my honor to bend the knee.”

  Sensing a lull in the other conversation at the table, Margot turned to the duke. “How do you find Bleneccle Manor in the light of day, Your Grace?”

  It was as much a question for herself, to test whether the spell cast at dinner had been an evening bewitchment or if would last into sunshine. She was inclined to call it all a folly, apologize for her behavior, and move forward. But then he set those gray eyes on her again.

  “It is a handsome house,” he said in a slow, easy drawl. “I confess I was afraid the northern pixies would keep me from sleeping, but I’m well-rested this morning.”

  He winked with the joke. Margot did not want to admit how it made her stomach trip. Instead, she smiled back. “That would be the blood sacrifice we performed at midnight, to ensure you were protected.”

  Delight spread across his face, and Margot was sure he was about to la
ugh when her father intervened. “Never mind Margot, Fitz. She is always finding a new way to torment us. Now, I am most curious to hear about the Warwickshire canal you mentioned. I should like to bring that sort of innovation up here.”

  Margot didn’t consider a joke here and there torment, but she had been receiving such admonishments her whole life, so she barely noticed it until the duke replied. Even as he said “Certainly,” to her father, his gray eyes found her again, and he murmured from the corner of his mouth, “I look forward to hearing more about this sacrifice later.”

  His attention returned to her father; he voiced his opinions on canals even as he turned his shoulders to face Lord Eastley. Yet Margot was aware of the duke with every bite she took. As she poured herself tea, she noted how he held himself tall and proud, his blond hair regal in its old-fashioned queue. As she chatted with Hugh about his new snowplow invention, she heard the bassline of the duke’s deep voice. Even when she teased Alice, her thoughts still hooked to whether the duke might overhear.

  “If you’re quite done eating, may I borrow you for a moment, Margot?” Alice asked, startling Margot from a reverie of what witty tale she might spin next for the duke. Alice raised an amused eyebrow, which Margot chose to ignore.

  They retired to Alice’s dressing room, ostensibly to choose a brooch for her to wear that evening. Alice chattered on about the importance of cameo details until they were out of earshot of the men, just to keep anyone from asking questions. Then, in the safety of her room, she turned to Margot with a gleam of excitement. “I thought you would never finish eating. I have an idea for what we can do next.”

  Margot opened Alice’s jewelry box and ran her fingers over the set of necklaces shining back up at her. “Do tell.”

  From a different drawer of her dressing table, Alice withdrew a fat pinecone. “We leave this in Lord Gresham’s pillowcase tonight.”

  It was quite the specimen: both long and broad, it bristled with wide pointers. Margot couldn’t help a little laugh. The idea was an infantile prank they might have played on a governess. Yet here they were, grown women.

  “What if the maid gets blamed?”

  Alice squared her shoulders. “We would intervene, of course. I, for one, don’t mind declaring to Lord and Lady Gresham how I feel, if only Mother would allow me.”

  “Perhaps we should leave a note with the pinecone, for his edification on how to properly treat a young lady.” Margot crossed to the window, hoping the morning vista might inspire a better idea. Alice’s room looked over the back acres of their property, which sloped upwards until it disappeared into the mountainside. Margot hadn’t traveled much before her marriage; it was only once she had taken her honeymoon with Geoff that she’d discovered not all of England was nestled in the soft valleys of friendly mountains. She’d grown accustomed to the flat fields of Wickhamshire, but oh, she was glad to be ensconced in northern fairyland again.

  “Well, I’m not sure that insulting the Duke of Harrodshire is a wiser plan,” Alice said. “Although I can’t say he seems to mind your cheekiness.”

  The subject was too new for Margot to examine with Alice. Instead, she turned from the mountains and seized the pinecone. “I suppose this is the best we can do, short of mutiny. I feel a little mean about it, but then I remember Miss Dawes. I suppose she is with her family, and I hope they aren’t making her feel too miserable about it.”

  “Her father wouldn’t, but sometimes her mother speaks too stridently.” Alice gnawed her lower lip in worry. “What will be worse is the Season. I can’t imagine having to return unmarried, when everyone thought you would be on your wedding trip.”

  What Margot couldn’t understand was why Lord Ingram hadn’t challenged Lord Gresham instead of letting the man run off with the duchess. Hadn’t Lisbeth’s father any sense of duty or honor?

  It wasn’t that Margot approved of duels, but in situations such as these, it would have made Lisbeth’s return to the ton so much easier had someone stood up for her. Instead, the gossips would whisper about how she’d been deserted by her fiancé and even her father hadn’t found her worthy of defense.

  It made Margot’s blood boil and was enough to make her take up the cause in her own way. Even if it meant sticking a pinecone in a man’s pillow.

  Her fury matched with the fire leaping in Alice’s eyes. “Shall we do this, then?”

  Even as daughters of the household, they had no good reason to be in the vicinity of Lord Gresham’s bedchamber, so they crept around the castle to avoid discovery by either servant or family. While Alice slipped inside to deposit their present, Margot stationed herself in the hallway, just beyond the door, pretending to examine the portrait of their great-grandfather, the shipping merchant who had earned the barony from Queen Anne. She listened for footsteps, the better to warn Alice, while wishing they had a nobler story to explain their peerage. She’d always longed for a legend of a knight saving a princess from French kidnappers, or a well-fought battle on the Continent, but alas, the Winpoles had been ennobled for richening the royal coffers. The castle they lived in had been a gift at the expense of some Northern lord who dared fight alongside the Scots at the wrong time.

  Margot didn’t hear any footsteps, but she did hear Alice’s shriek. She rushed into the bedchamber to discover Lady Gresham standing in the threshold that adjoined the lord’s dressing room, her cool gaze evaluating Alice, whose hand was that very moment stuck inside the pillow.

  For a moment, Lady Gresham was still as a statue. She was a tall, slim woman, who could easily have taken up a knight’s suit of armor should she need to. Margot wondered if she would be moved to rage, discovering the two of them in her husband’s boudoir, and how she would attack. Was she a lady of acerbic wit? Of honey-soaked venom? Or would she let her fury shine through in the privacy of a bedchamber?

  The lady stepped forward, a slight smile about her lips. “What a curious scene to walk into. May I ask, Lady Windemere, what you are doing?”

  Alice looked to Margot, desperation written across her face. Margot couldn’t think of any explanation better than what they were doing – and plenty worse – so she could only give her sister a helpless shrug.

  Somehow summoning a haughty expression, Alice withdrew the pinecone and held it aloft for all to see. “Why, I was leaving this in your husband’s pillow, Lady Gresham.”

  Margot and Alice had gotten into a scrape or two as girls, but Margot couldn’t recall anything as embarrassing as this. Perhaps because they didn’t have the excuse of being children.

  Yet Lady Gresham smiled with relief, as if that were what she’d been hoping to hear. “Ah, of course. We’re pranking old Talbot. I suppose he deserves it.”

  The lady sat herself down on the mattress as if they were childhood friends having a chat. “I hope you don’t take offense, but as far as pranks go, this one is rather…” here she raised an eyebrow at the pinecone “…rudimentary. Perhaps if we three put our heads together, we can come up with something more sophisticated.”

  It hardly seemed wise to trust the woman whose husband was the victim, yet something in Lady Gresham’s manner made Margot want to. She exchanged a bewildered look with Alice, then took up a seat on the bed as well.

  “Now, in matters like this, I like to start with my objective. I assume your objective here is to make Talbot reflect on the consequences his actions will have for Miss Dawes?”

  Alice, sitting next to Margot, crossed her arms. “I would be satisfied with making him hurt in exchange for what he did to Miss Dawes.”

  “I see.” Lady Gresham leaned back, casting her cool blue gaze upwards as she thought. “I have an idea, but we’ll need Fitz’s help.”

  Margot thought of the duke’s easy, delighted smile at breakfast. She wouldn’t mind an excuse to provoke that again.

  “We’ll have Fitz ‘receive a letter’ from town with the news that Miss Dawes ha
s published a tell-all article in the scandal sheets about what happened, and that it lists all sorts of falsities. Like that Talbot doesn’t know the first thing about horses.”

  “Or that he doesn’t know how to read,” Alice suggested.

  “That he is afraid to place a bet at White’s.” Margot earned a little laugh from Lady Gresham before she inquired, “But why does His Grace need to receive the letter? Why couldn’t one of us be the recipient?”

  “Why, the problem of the unreliable narrator, of course,” Lady Gresham responded. “If you’re the one reading the letter, Talbot will have an inkling that perhaps you are exaggerating. Whereas he trusts his best friend. He won’t conceive that Fitz is in on the joke.”

  Alice was gnawing her lower lip again. “If they’re best friends, will His Grace agree to participate?”

  Lady Gresham’s face lit with mischief. “I believe he will if Lady Wickham asks him.”

  Margot felt her face heat with a blush as both women turned the same amused smile on her. “Me? I only met the man last night. Why should he do anything I ask him to?”

  “If he gives you any trouble, just bat your eyes at him a few times like you did at dinner last night,” Lady Gresham said. “I believe he’s partial to it.”

  As her sister hid a giggle, Margot stood, the better to maintain her dignity. “I was only batting my eyes last night to teach His Grace a lesson on leaving poor, innocent debutantes with their honor impugned on their wedding day. I shall gladly do so again with the same mission.”

  “And I shall work on the letter,” Alice declared. “Perhaps we can have it ‘arrive’ by special messenger this evening.”

  “It’s a plan.” Lady Gresham headed back to the interior door that led to Talbot’s dressing room. She paused at the threshold. “In the meantime, I’ll brace for whatever variation of the pinecone you have planned for me. After all, it was I who proposed to Talbot, knowing he was to be married the next morning. Although, in the end, I believe it was Miss Dawes who convinced him to run off with me.”